


Appetite

by introductory



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, PWP, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Somnophilia, Squirting, Top Aziraphale, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, vaginal intercourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductory/pseuds/introductory
Summary: Aziraphale isn't staring on purpose, but Crowley's chosen forms have always been utterly enchanting, even when he'd been appreciating them solely from an aesthetic standpoint.  The body he's inhabited since the turn of the nineteenth century is one of Aziraphale's favorites:  the golden eyes and pointed incisors have accompanied him unfailingly from one corporation to the next, of course, as have the serpentine brand and the fiery red tresses, but this particular body seemstailor-madejust for him.  The bony angles of his collarbones and shoulders, the sharpness of his wrists; the sinuous curve of his spine, the delicate ribs that number far more than a human's; the subtle iridescence of scales at the base of his throat and along his sides, sensitive to the merest brush; the slim breadth of his hips, tiny enough to fit in Aziraphale's handspan; the smooth, pale thighs, partedjust so --[Categorized under both GO tags because it contradicts nothing from the book and only one thing from the show; and, to be completely frank, there isn't enough characterization to be found in this piece to truly build an argument about which side it might potentially fall on.]





	Appetite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momentia/gifts).



> Happy, uh, midsummer slump? I tried my best -- I hope you like it. 
> 
> **Note:** I'm categorizing this under both GO tags because it contradicts nothing from the book and only one thing from the show (their appearances in the flashbacks, which I personally choose to believe was visual shorthand for the viewers know who they were and not actually indicative of the bodies they were in at the time). This is also a PWP, and as such lacks significant amounts of characterization to begin with.
> 
> Also, Crowley has got a bit of snakelike features here and there, but nothing too unusual or intimate; and in case you missed it from the tags, he has a vagina as well. Enjoy!

By Aziraphale's calculations, he's spent more time asleep in the last six weeks than the last six millennia combined, and that's even despite Crowley's best efforts to distract him whenever they're actually in bed. Sleep is a deliberate effort on his part each time; he doesn't need it the way Crowley seems to -- sinking naturally from drowsy languor into something akin to hibernation -- but he _has_ learned to enjoy it, adores the feeling of waking up with Crowley curled around him or in his arms, never more than a few inches away, skin warm from where it's absorbed Aziraphale's body heat.

As he wakes right now, floating to awareness sometime just after sunrise, the thin beams streaming in through the windows of the flat and painting the room with grey light. He luxuriates in it for a few minutes, the slow reawakening of his senses: he can smell dust and petrol fumes and the blackberry crumb cake being lovingly assembled at the bakery catty-corner from the shop; can hear the city stirring sluggishly, vibrantly to life, can feel its inhabitants' casual optimism, their hopes that today will be a good day; and of course, his beloved demon. 

Crowley's naked, as is his wont: on his back, face turned into the pillow, arms at his sides and one leg slightly bent. He'd worn undergarments the first few times they'd gone to bed together, apparently worried he'd scare Aziraphale off with his lack of modesty, as if Aziraphale hadn't seen him in the nude plenty of times before the first millennium had even ended. Aziraphale rolls onto his side and watches Crowley's chest rise and fall, his body breathing seemingly out of habit. His eyes flicker under the thin lids, his expression softening when Aziraphale reaches down to stroke his cheek, something like a sigh escaping his lips, and out of the corner of Aziraphale's eye he sees Crowley's body shift minutely against the sheets. 

Aziraphale isn't staring on purpose, but Crowley's chosen forms have always been utterly enchanting, even when he'd been appreciating them solely from an aesthetic standpoint. The body he's inhabited since the turn of the nineteenth century is one of Aziraphale's favorites: the golden eyes and pointed incisors have accompanied him unfailingly from one corporation to the next, of course, as have the serpentine brand and the fiery red tresses, but this particular body seems tailor-made just for him. The bony angles of his collarbones and shoulders, the sharpness of his wrists; the sinuous curve of his spine, the delicate ribs that number far more than a human's; the subtle iridescence of scales at the base of his throat and along his sides, sensitive to the merest brush; the slim breadth of his hips, tiny enough to fit in Aziraphale's handspan; the smooth, pale thighs, parted just so --

Now that Aziraphale's looking, properly looking, he can glimpse the pink of Crowley's cunt beneath the wild auburn curls, tantalizing as a sun-ripe peach, and suddenly he's _ravenous_. 

He scoots down the bed, careful not to jostle Crowley awake, and lightly strokes his thighs until they part further; he's glistening, leaking -- Crowley claims this particular corporation has always easily been prone to wetness, though Aziraphale has his suspicions -- and Aziraphale imagines he can see the traces of himself he'd left behind yesterday afternoon when Crowley barged into the bookshop, flipped the sign to _closed_ with a snap of his fingers, and straddled Aziraphale on the sofa, heedless of the hour and the group of curious tourists gathered outside. Even sitting up like this, Aziraphale can _smell_ the sweet musky scent of Crowley's cunt, and in seconds he's leaned forward and pushed Crowley's thighs fully apart, delicately dragging his tongue across the wetness that's started to gather there, and oh, that _taste_ \-- that sweetness on Aziraphale's tongue like the finest of desserts, the most heavenly of delights. 

Crowley favors this style of effort, has done so from the very beginning, and wears it almost exclusively; the remaining time he's outfit himself with the other or something in-between, either for novelty's sake or at Aziraphale's request or simply due to his own general discomfort with the idea of _making no effort at all_. Aziraphale, who has gone largely effortless for the last six millennia and is now just coming to terms with the fact that this particular corporation is laughably easy to rouse in Crowley's presence, finds this more than amenable. Not that he doesn't enjoy eating out Crowley's arse in any configuration, or swallowing down Crowley's rare and lovely cock, but there's something to be said for this particular act: it's a classic, invented by Adam and Eve on their second afternoon in the Garden, and if Aziraphale had known it would be so _good_ he might've accepted the advances of that lovely single mother in Akkadia four thousand years ago who'd shared with him a meal of bread and dates, or that young man who'd slept in his spare room for two weeks in 1856, cast out by his family for daring to live on his own terms, or the overzealous kinkster who'd turned up one Sunday night in 1994, convinced Aziraphale's bookshop was a front for some sordid underground dungeon and would not be persuaded otherwise. But it's just as well he hadn't; he's infinitely pleased Crowley was his first in most, if not all, things of this nature.

Crowley whimpers softly in his sleep as Aziraphale gets him worked up, tracing his clit and his folds with soft, sure strokes, and when Aziraphale dips his tongue inside him, into that sweetness, Crowley makes a hissing noise, a muscle in his thigh twitching where his leg is slung over Aziraphale's shoulder. He's surely approaching wakefulness by this point; Aziraphale slows his pace, prolonging the moment so it stretches out like spun sugar. He substitutes his licks with kisses instead, feather-light, letting his breath ghost over the tender flesh that grows warmer with every passing second. The insides of Crowley's pale thighs have begun to shake, and Aziraphale kisses those, too, leaves wet marks between his legs and over the sharp crests of his hips, before meandering back down whence he began.

Finally, what seems like entire centuries later, there's Crowley's blurry voice saying, "'Z _ss_ iraphale?" as if there was anyone else it could possibly be. Aziraphale just hums, lips against Crowley's clit, and Crowley's body jerks, thighs tightening around Aziraphale's ears. His hips buck against Aziraphale's mouth, the motion pure instinct, and Aziraphale has half a mind to hold him down before Crowley lets out a sigh and relaxes, body going boneless and lax. " _Aziraphale_ ," he says again, breathless, and this time when Aziraphale swipes his tongue across Crowley's clit all he does is whine, heels sliding across the sheets but the rest of him staying obediently put. 

"Good morning, dear," Aziraphale says, pulling back just far enough to meet his golden eyes. "Slept well, I hope?"

"Yess _ss_ , angel," Crowley says, sleep-drunk and hazy, forked tongue flicking out from between white teeth. "What're you -- _ah_ \-- "

Aziraphale's bent his head back to the task once more, and whatever Crowley was intending to say dissolves into a hiss. Crowley seems to taste even sweeter now that he's awake; the combination of his slick with the sounds he's making, pleading and wordless in turns, is downright intoxicating. Aziraphale could stay between Crowley's thighs until this civilization gave way to the next, until the universe itself came to its true predestined end. Crowley reaches down to ghost his hand over Aziraphale's hair -- too considerate to pull, even dragged up from the depths of slumber -- and breathes, "Angel, oh -- don't you dare _sssstop_ ," and Aziraphale has to work only for a few seconds more before Crowley is shuddering, bucking against Aziraphale's mouth, his hands flung out to grip the silken sheets. 

Nor does Aziraphale stop now, and the aftershocks meld seamlessly into a second orgasm, causing Crowley to cry out, shaking head to toe; this time his hands come down to grasp at Aziraphale, who catches them with his own and entwines their fingers through it. Then a third, and a fourth, and when Aziraphale pulls back momentarily to wipe his chin Crowley catches his wrist and _pulls_ , rasps out, "Angel, come _here_ ," dragging Aziraphale up to kiss him, hungry, licking his own slick from Aziraphale's lips. 

"Inside," he begs, eyes wild and desperate, "inss _ss_ ide me, angel, _pleasssse_ \-- "

Aziraphale has spared barely a thought to his own body thus far, singlemindedly focused as he's been on Crowley, but it's only a matter of thought before he's pushing into the tight, wet heat of Crowley's cunt. For all his skin is cool to the touch he's positively _scorching_ on the inside -- partly Aziraphale's miraculous doing, partly Crowley's own demonic nature -- and Aziraphale has to shut his eyes and rein in his body's immediate desire to come. Crowley's drenched and slick with his own release, and the more Aziraphale moves within him the slicker he gets, the tighter he clenches, internal muscles gripping at him in practiced, utterly _sinful_ ways. 

"My dear," Aziraphale pants, "if you continue like that, I'll -- "

"Yess _ss_ ," hisses Crowley, locking his ankles around the small of Aziraphale's back. "Yes, angel, I want it, give it to me, ffffill me _up_ \-- "

What can Aziraphale say to that? He tries his best to keep a steady pace, to aim for the angle inside Crowley that will have him throwing his head back onto the pillows as he writhes and makes all manner of inarticulate noises, and soon enough Aziraphale's got him exactly there, clawing at Aziraphale's arms, hips rocking up to meet every one of Aziraphale's thrusts, flushed pink all the way down to his pretty, heaving chest. 

"Yes, that's good," Aziraphale says. He rocks into Crowley that much deeper, that much harder. "Dearest, do let me see you come -- "

And as if on command, Crowley does, entirely untouched: a full-body shudder that has him crying out and soaking the sheets for the first time Aziraphale can recall. It's such a _fascinating_ physical reaction, something strange and utterly novel he immediately adds to his ever-increasing list of favorite things about Crowley's body, and he can't resist using another minor miracle to prolong Crowley's orgasm until he's whimpering softly, a hand tight over his eyes, lips bitten red and raw. Only then does Aziraphale give himself over to his own climax, the pleasure almost an afterthought, spilling inside Crowley with a soft murmur: _darling, lovely, my love_.

It takes several long moments for them to separate, Crowley limp and boneless, legs sprawled haphazardly to the side. Aziraphale can't resist swiping two fingers through the pool of fluid on the sheets and bringing them up to his tongue: it's less viscous than Crowley's regular slick, a barely detectable difference in flavor but just as sweet, and Aziraphale could certainly develop a taste for this as well. He'd like to lean back down and lick the rest of it from between Crowley's thighs, but the poor boy is plenty overstimulated and besides he'd no doubt have some choice words about it, were he in any condition to say them aloud.

Crowley finally draws his hand back from his eyes just in time to watch Aziraphale lick his fingers clean a third time, and the expression on his face makes the saying of aforementioned-yet-unsaid words quite redundant. It's a shame, in Aziraphale's opinion, to stop and miracle it all away, but Crowley is fastidious about a great many things and the prospect of lying in a pool of his own ejaculate is surely one of them. The mess vanished, he's free to curl around Crowley's still-trembling body, chin against the crown of Crowley's head. Crowley wriggles into him in turn, angling his face into Aziraphale's neck and settling with a quiet, satisfied sigh.

"That was rather selfish of me, wasn't it?" Aziraphale murmurs after a beat, and Crowley looks up at him askance, as if to say _you daft angel, I_ wanted _you to do it_. "Waking you in such a manner, simply to whet my insatiable appetite -- _shame_ on me."

"Positively gluttonouss _ss_ ," Crowley agrees with a slow reptilian blink, but there's no bite in the words.

He goes back to sleep very quickly after that, having burrowed even more tightly into Aziraphale's embrace. The bakery's crumb cake has finally come out of the oven, the aroma mouthwatering, but Aziraphale is already plenty sated, perfectly happy to stroke Crowley's sweat-damp hair and trace the glimmering scales along the juncture of neck and shoulder. At least for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that, for the last 14 years and, in fact, up until about 14 days ago, I could not bring myself to read anything raunchier for these two than chaste pecks in the garden? The joke is on me, I have been Thoroughly Had.
> 
> Reblog link on Tumblr, if you're so inclined: [@getintherobot](https://getintherobot.tumblr.com/post/186414267615/appetite-2000-words-aziraphalecrowley-book-and).


End file.
